


Whisper Game

by astudyinrose



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU in which John and Sherlock meet before John goes to war, Anal Sex, Bathroom Sex, Face-Fucking, First Kiss, Frottage, Gay Bar, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Series 1, Soulmates, Stag Nights & Bachelor Parties, pre-ASiP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 10:11:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3130739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astudyinrose/pseuds/astudyinrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is on his stag night at a gay club a few weeks before he ships out to Afghanistan…when he meets Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whisper Game

**Author's Note:**

> [Katie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl/works?fandom_id=133185), you're an amazing writer and gave me so many lovely comments. Thank you.  
> [Leslie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin/works?fandom_id=133185), as you know, you made this fic ten times better through prompting me to flesh it out more. Pun intended, as always.  
>  And last but not least: [Tenaya](http://sandyamp.tumblr.com/), thank you SO much for your detail oriented editing.
> 
> This is for [Alex](http://alexscottholmes.tumblr.com/), my fairy gaymother, who wanted this fic as a Christmas gift. Happy (very late) Christmas, love!

 

John leaned against the bar, watching an ocean of attractive men grind against each other in a seething mass on the dance floor. 

Mike had insisted they end the pub crawl at a gay club, and John had just shrugged and gone along with it. Mike knew that John had been with men before, and it wasn’t as if he was ashamed of it. The irony of ending his stag night at a gay club right before his wedding to a woman, though, wasn’t lost on him.

Mike had gone to the loo, so John was alone at the moment, his half-drunk beer at his elbow. He’d good-naturedly brushed off the advances of one or two men already, but there was one man on the dance floor who had caught John’s attention. Though he’d tried to look away, his gaze was repeatedly drawn back to him like a magnet. 

The man was tall, though not the tallest on the floor by any means. He was wearing a simple black button down and black trousers, which showed off his slim waist and plush arse. His sleeves were rolled up over his forearms and his collar was unbuttoned, but very little of his skin was bared compared to many of the revelers on the floor. The fact that he was wearing far more clothing and was far more slender than the muscled men surrounding him might have made him stand out, though it couldn’t have been the only reason. His pale skin was almost luminescent under the red, blue, and purple disco lights of the dance floor, and when he twisted around John could see a long throat peeking above the dark collar. John couldn’t see his face, only his dark, curly hair, but when the man turned his head to the side as he danced, John could see his high cheekbones and a full mouth in profile.

The song ended, and the opening guitar riffs of a new song came over the loudspeakers. The man paused, running his hand through his hair and shaking his head—dismissing an invitation for another dance, no doubt—and turned around.

John was ostensibly aware that if he continued to stare like this, the man would certainly notice within seconds, but he couldn’t bring himself to avert his gaze.

Weaving his way through the crowd with a sort of lithe grace, the curly-haired man scanned the room once before his gaze fell on John. When their eyes met, John immediately felt pinned in place by the man’s strangely colored eyes. John gulped, unable to rip his gaze away, and the stranger raised one eyebrow. His eyes swept down John’s entire body and then back up to his face. John felt a flush rising to his cheeks, and as their eyes met again, the man’s mouth twitched in amusement. His eyes focused on John in a way that meant only one thing: _Game on._  

John blinked, as if awakening from a trance, and forced himself to turn around. He grabbed his glass and gulped down some of the now-tepid beer, trying to ignore the fact that his heart was beating out of his chest.

What the _hell_ was he doing? He was about to get married, and he _definitely_  shouldn’t be ogling men in the middle of a gay bar.

A few seconds went by, and John tried to breathe deeply, hoping that the man would move on. 

Apparently he wasn’t getting off that easily, though. The curly-haired man leaned against the counter to his left, his back to the bar, standing just barely close enough that he was invading John’s space. 

 _Don’t look at him. Don’t look. Don’t._  

John drained his beer, motioning to the bartender for another. The man continued to look out at the dance floor as if nothing were amiss.

“Ta,” John said, throwing down a ten pound note when the bartender brought his drink. They stood without speaking for at least another full minute. John was starting to wonder if Mike had gotten lost in the loo. 

“You’re not gay.” The man’s voice was deep and smooth, which was…distracting. 

“What?” John turned toward him, surprise and irritation flicking through him. 

“I _said_ ,” he repeated, a bit louder, “that you’re not gay.” 

“No. I’m not,” John said, frowning. “But I don’t know how that’s any of your business—”

“Yet, you’re not straight either,” the man interrupted. He turned his head just enough so he could look down at John. The intensity of his gaze made John feel exposed.

John swallowed another large gulp of his drink. “Yeah,” he admitted. “How did you know?”

The man smirked, holding out his hand. “Sherlock. Pleasure to meet you.” 

John stared at his hand for a second, trying to think of a way he could get out of shaking it. Failing to think of one, he put down his glass and took Sherlock’s hand. “John,” he said, pumping it once and then relaxing his grip. 

But Sherlock didn’t let go. Instead, he swept his thumb over John’s knuckles, and John’s breath caught just the tiniest bit. 

Slowly, Sherlock moved a step closer, their hands still clasped. He was positively looming over John now, and the height difference was even more obvious now that they were so close. 

“Do you mind?” John asked faintly. His brain was a lot foggier than a few drinks should have justified.

“Not in the slightest,” Sherlock said, his voice deeper than before. John could feel his warm breath on his face as he said the words. “Would you like to dance, John?” 

John almost said no, but something about Sherlock made him pause. He bit his lip, considering, as he glanced around to see if Mike had returned, but there was no trace of him.  

“Just one song,” Sherlock said, apparently sensing his hesitation. 

It might have been recklessness, or curiosity, or something else entirely, but he heard himself say, “All right,” and he was immediately pulled toward the dance floor. 

They wove through the crowds of men, many of whom turned to look at them (well, at Sherlock) as they passed. Sherlock finally stopped near the center of the room and turned to face John, and he started dancing.

John tried not to let his face flush, as several of the men around them glanced their way, but he closed his eyes and tried to let himself just enjoy the beat of the music. After all, he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off Sherlock before, and it turned out that there was a solid reason for that: Sherlock was an excellent dancer.

Dancing was one word for it, anyway—it felt more like sex with clothes on. There was something completely not-chaste about the undulating movements of Sherlock’s hips against his own and the way his fingertips trailed down John’s neck. John tipped his face upward, reveling in the smell and touch of the tall man in front of him. Their bodies seemed to meld together as they moved, and John couldn't remember a time when he'd felt less self-conscious while dancing. Time seemed to wax and wane, like a living thing, and John wasn’t aware of anything else but the movement of their bodies. For a long while he let everything go, until he felt a hand cup his cheek.

In a moment of daring, he opened his eyes. Sherlock was looking down at him with a ravenous look, and John gulped.

“I—” John began, starting to back away, but he was cut off by Sherlock bending down to capture his lips in a kiss.

John’s knees buckled, and he heard a voice in his head screaming at him to push Sherlock away, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. 

The kiss was closed at first, but Sherlock flicked his tongue against John’s lips until they parted. Sherlock’s lips were warm and full, and John tasted a hint of tobacco. He could feel Sherlock’s lopsided grin as he pulled John closer, pressing his tongue into his mouth. John was lost in a haze, his body responding against his will, and he was unable to turn away. Sherlock’s hands were on his back, sneaking down to his arse, and John reached up to thread his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, tugging just barely enough to cause pain. Sherlock moaned into John’s mouth, and John felt a frisson of pleasure down his spine at the idea of bringing this man to his knees. 

Sherlock abruptly pulled back, his eyes darker than before. His hands were definitely now south of the border, palming the back of John’s jeans. John blinked up at him and tried not to think about what he’d just done. 

Sherlock leaned in, and at first John thought he was about to be snogged again, but instead Sherlock pressed his mouth next to John’s ear. “I’m going to the accessible loo. Wait two minutes, then follow,” he said. His voice even deeper than before, if that was possible.

John shivered. “I—I can’t—” he stuttered, shaking his head. “You don’t know the first thing about me. We’ve known each other five minutes, and now you want me to go with you to the loo for, what, a quick shag?”

Sherlock stepped back, looking down at him intensely for a moment before grinning smugly. “I know that you recently graduated from St. Bart’s and that you’re a captain in the RAMC. I know that you identify as bisexual though only a handful of people know about it. I know you’re engaged to a woman you’ve known for a grand total of four—no, three—months. You decided to get married before you’re shipped out to either Afghanistan or Iraq, so it’s been put together hastily. You’re having qualms about it now, since you barely know each other,” Sherlock rattled off in rapid succession. “I think that’s quite enough to be getting on with, don’t you?”

John gaped at him. “How could you possibly know all of that? And—” he shook his head, trying to regain composure, “—what in bloody hell makes you think that will make me follow you?”

Sherlock simply grinned more widely. “You will. It’s what you like.” Without waiting for a response, he turned away, pushing his way through the crowd.  

John shook his head savagely, his eyes darting around the dance floor, trying to discern if anyone he knew had seen them. A couple of men were eyeing John with envy, but he didn’t recognize anyone. 

His throat suddenly felt exceedingly dry, so John turned and weaved through the mass of bodies back to the bar, leaning his elbows against it and pressing his palms to his face. 

He needed to leave, with or without Mike. Being in a gay bar was one thing, but kissing another bloke like _that_ was definitely outside the bounds of what was allowed on a stag night.

John was just about to turn toward the door when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He looked at the caller ID, rolling his eyes as he answered.

“Mike?”

“Having fun?” 

John pinched his nose. “Where the _hell_ have you been?” 

“Sorry mate, got a call from Linda, had to step out, and now I have to wait in line again. Have you pulled anyone yet?”  

“Ha, ha,” John joked halfheartedly. “I’ll come out and meet you, I’m ready to go anyway.”

“No, I’m going to get back in soon! There’s more fun to be had in there, surely." 

John shook his head. “No, I should—”

“Just wait for five more minutes. I’ll buy you another pint.”

“Mike—” 

“Cheerio!” The line went dead. 

John slammed his phone down on the bar. The bartender looked at him suspiciously, but John just rubbed his eyes. He should insist that they leave, and go home to Mary. 

But the thrill of the kiss was still pumping through his veins, the adrenaline running through him like some kind of high. He’d never felt like that with Mary…only with Peter, his friend in uni, because they had kept it hidden. Their entire relationship had consisted of stolen, furtive moments, and they’d never been together out in the open.  

 _It’s what you like_ , Sherlock had said. 

How could he possibly have known?  

John was still pressing his fingers to his eyes, feeling sweeping guilt in the pit of his stomach, when the bartender cleared his throat. John lowered his hands, looking up at the shirtless twenty-year-old with dyed blond highlights. “For what it’s worth,” the bartender said, “he never does that.”

“He never does what?” John asked warily.

“Pull anyone.” The bartender shrugged, glancing toward the loo. “Plenty of guys have tried, believe me. He’s been coming in here several times a week for a month or so, but he usually just seems sort of…I don’t know, untouchable. I always wonder why he’s even here at all.” 

The man’s eyes flicked back to John. “But you…he went straight for you. I can’t figure out why.”

John tried to smile, but it almost certainly looked like more of a grimace. “Thanks.”

The bartender rolled his eyes. “Save the ego, mate. I just don’t know why he picked _you_ out in particular.” His eyes scanned up and down John’s body, sizing him up.

John rubbed his lips with his thumb. “I don’t know either.”

“Well, we all have bets going on whether you’re going to go back there or not,” the young man said, picking up John’s empty glass.

“I’m guessing your money’s on yes,” John groused.  

The bartender shrugged. “Maybe. I do know one thing the others don’t know.”

“Oh? And what is that?” 

The young man cocked his head. “I’d check your pockets if I were you.”

John froze, immediately palming his back pockets. His wallet was gone. “Shit.”

The bartender shrugged again. “Thought as much. Now all you have to decide is what you’re going to do once you’re back there.” The bartender winked at him, smiling once more before he went to help another customer. 

John sighed, and wondered how he could possibly have been so stupid to think that Sherlock was actually interested in him, but this made things much easier. His anger starting to boil, John stood up straight and marched directly toward the loo.  

The hallway in the back of the club was dark. The lights overhead were flickering in and out as he walked up to the accessible toilet. He tried the knob, and it was unlocked, so he pushed it open quickly. 

Sherlock was sitting on the closed toilet seat, picking through the contents of John’s wallet. He looked up at John with an arrogantly satisfied expression, but John didn’t wait for him to speak. Instead, he grabbed Sherlock by the collar and pushed him up against the wall, kneeing one leg between Sherlock’s thighs and pressing one forearm to Sherlock’s throat while pinning his hands above his head with the other hand.

Sherlock barely even struggled, and John easily had him locked in this position, their faces inches apart. 

“Thought you could pull one over on me, did you?” John asked, pressing his forearm just a bit more against Sherlock’s neck. “Weren’t you the one who pointed out that I’m in the army?”

Sherlock didn’t respond, except to stare down at John with wide eyes, his pupils blown dark. 

“Come now, John,” Sherlock said, his voice calm. “How else was I going to get you back here? You clearly have a high standard of moral principle, so you wouldn’t deliberately cheat on your fiancée." 

Sherlock twisted his hips, and John could feel his cock brush against Sherlock’s through their clothes. 

John growled in annoyance, anger, or arousal—or all three. “You really think I’m stupid enough to fall for that again?” he asked, gritting his teeth. 

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “I don’t know. Are you?”

They stared at each other for another long moment, breathing heavily, still locked together. John could feel Sherlock’s cock hardening against his hip as the seconds ticked by. Sherlock continued to look down at him with aloofness that was surely feigned, and a hunger that wasn’t. It was infuriating and yet somehow utterly disarming.

John licked his lips, unable to stop himself from glancing at Sherlock’s mouth again. “What do you want from me?” he asked, finally.

Sherlock’s gaze raked over John’s face. “I want… I want to suck you off,” he said, his voice gruff. “I want to take you in so far that I can’t breathe, and I want you to pull my hair until it hurts, like you did out there. I want you to fuck my mouth until you come down my throat.” His darkened eyes were wild, like an animal’s.

“Jesus.” John clenched his teeth, trying not to imagine those plush lips wrapped around his cock, of thrusting into that mouth until he saw stars. Suddenly he was fully hard, and he knew that if he was going to put a stop to this, now was the time.

For once, though, John didn’t think. He just acted.  

He removed his arm from Sherlock’s throat and pulled his head down to crush their mouths together.

Sherlock made a small noise of approval in the back of his throat, sliding down the wall a bit to give John better access. John pressed his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, biting his lower lip, and stepped forward to fully pin his body against the wall.

He kissed down Sherlock’s throat to suck the skin over his pulse, and Sherlock moaned, his head falling back against the tile and his eyes sliding closed. John’s dominant side took over, and he wanted nothing more than to have at Sherlock until he was completely undone. John thrusted his hips upward, creating friction through their clothes as he bit down on Sherlock’s throat. 

“Oh god,” Sherlock moaned into his ear, tilting his hips upward to meet John’s grinding thrusts. “Please.”

That voice sent a shiver down John’s spine, and suddenly he needed more. He released Sherlock’s hands from above his head and started untucking Sherlock's shirt, skimming his fingers over heated skin.

His hands freed, Sherlock immediately started on John’s belt buckle, undoing his trousers. He shoved his hand down between John’s trousers and his pants, palming John’s erection. John gasped, gripping Sherlock’s waist harder as he stroked John tantalizingly slowly over his pants. 

“Tease,” John panted. 

“Not,” Sherlock gasped. “Just trying to slow you down so I can do this.”

He grabbed John by the shoulders and switched their positions before immediately getting down on his knees on the dingy linoleum. He pulled John’s trousers and pants down enough to free his cock, which was so hard that there was already liquid beading from the head. Grabbing it by the base, Sherlock started kissing and sucking the head, teasing the frenulum with his tongue.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” John gasped, his hand flew to Sherlock’s hair, but he dropped it quickly. Sherlock looked up at him and nodded, pulling John’s hand back to his head in permission. John sighed, weaving his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and tugging, and Sherlock moaned again around his cock, sending a thrill down John’s whole body. He had to actively fight the urge to come at the sight of Sherlock looking up at him through his long eyelashes, those pornographic lips wrapped around his cock. 

Growling lightly, Sherlock reached up with one of his hands to fondle John’s balls one after another, bobbing on the shaft a few times. “Fuck, your mouth is amazing,” John muttered again, letting his head fall back against the tile. 

Sherlock’s eyes were still focused on him as he took John's cock in all the way until John could feel the head hitting the back of Sherlock’s throat, his entire length wrapped in wet heat. Sherlock swallowed twice, and John groaned.

“C-can…can I…” John stuttered, and Sherlock nodded again, so John swore and started thrusting into Sherlock’s mouth, using the hand in Sherlock’s hair to set the pace.

“Oh, god, so good, so good, oh fuck,” John babbled. Sherlock held onto the base of John's cock for balance, sliding his other hand past John’s balls to tease down his perineum, then circled two fingers over the tight muscle of John’s hole before pressing one finger inward.

John groaned, a shiver running down his spine. He started pounding into that long throat, and Sherlock twisted his finger inside John at the same time, eventually finding the nub of his prostate. 

“ _Fuck_.” John’s back arched as he gave a particularly hard thrust into Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock choked.

“Jesus, sorry, are you alright?” John gasped, pausing just long enough to see Sherlock nodding voraciously, his eyes watering.

“God you’re so amazing, that mouth, you’re so fucking good,” John breathed as he started thrusting hard again. Sherlock groaned, his eyes sliding closed, and the sound was just enough to bring John right to the edge.

“I’m—going—going to—” John tried to warn him, releasing Sherlock’s hair and trying to pull out. 

But Sherlock was having none of it. He grabbed the base of John’s cock, holding him in place, and stroked over his prostate once more with the other hand. John stuffed his fist in his mouth, making a great deal of noise as he came in long pulses down Sherlock’s throat, his entire being feeling like an electric current was running through it.

He was still leaning bonelessly against the wall when Sherlock stood up again, undoing his trousers. He pressed his tongue into John’s mouth, kissing him hard as he started pumping his own erection.  

John’s body felt like like gelatin, but he had enough lucidity to push Sherlock’s hand away and replace it with his own. 

Sherlock whimpered, breaking the kiss and pressing his forehead to John’s, his breath coming out in short, ragged bursts. John could feel him getting close, so he fisted him even harder until Sherlock’s fists clenched in John’s shirt and he came over his hand. 

“John, god,” Sherlock panted into his ear as he collapsed onto him. John laughed breathlessly, using all his limited post-coital strength to keep them upright against the wall.

“That was…amazing.” John’s eyes were still half-lidded.

“You think so?” Sherlock asked, his voice muffled. 

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary… quite extraordinary,” John said earnestly. 

Sherlock leaned his head back until he could meet John’s gaze. “That’s not what people normally say.”

John frowned. “What do people normally say?” he asked.

“Get your clothes and piss off,” Sherlock said, completely deadpan. 

John clenched his jaw, feeling a spurt of anger deep down at that statement. Sherlock watched him curiously, as if that reaction wasn’t what he’d expected.

Something about his expression made John want to reach up and touch Sherlock’s face again again, but he realized that his hand was still covered in Sherlock’s come. “Er—I’d better…” John said awkwardly, holding up his hand.

 “Oh yes, of course, sorry,” Sherlock said, stepping back and tucking himself back into his trousers at the same time. 

John nodded, awkwardly pulling his pants up one-handed as he walked over to the sink. 

“I thought you don’t do this. Pull people," he said, trying to keep his tone light as he washed his hands. 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, running his fingers through his mussed hair. “According to whom?”

John shrugged. “The bartender.”

Sherlock paused. “Well, he’s right, technically,” he said. “I don't. I’ve only been coming here to conduct research for a case.”

“Case?” John buttoned up his trousers quickly, and turned around to lean against the sink, crossing his arms.

Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me. Except when a certain _busybody_ takes it unto himself to police my personal affairs, and I’m blacklisted from any crime scenes.”

“What are you talking about?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “None of your concern.”

“Okay…” John said, changing tacks. “Will you tell me something else, then?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed. “Depends what it is.”

“Why me?” John asked. “If you don’t do this, why me?”

Sherlock paused for a moment, considering. “I don’t know,” he said quietly, as though it were extremely difficult for him to say. “I don’t like not knowing.” 

“Is that something new for you? Not knowing the answer?” John asked. His hands were itching to touch Sherlock again, to run his hands through the rumpled hair, but he wasn’t sure what the etiquette was in these situations—if he was still allowed to touch him.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied bluntly, moving closer.

John didn't move, feeling the tension building between them once more. Sherlock reached up to touch John's cheek delicately. 

“Do me a favour, Captain John Watson,” he said, his voice quiet but even. “When you’re over there, just…don’t get yourself killed, all right?”

John started to make a sarcastic retort, but something about the seriousness of Sherlock’s plea stopped him. 

“I’ll try,” he said, because there was nothing else to say. 

Sherlock held his gaze for a long moment, and John rose up on his toes to kiss him once more. 

This time, the kiss was much slower and sweeter. There was still the same passion as before bubbling beneath the surface, but it was controlled, gentle. 

John felt something strange happening at the very center of him, like a small glowing ember lodging itself in his chest. As the seconds ticked by, he realized that the kiss wasn’t about sex anymore; it was something else. It was absurd and made absolutely no logical sense, but for some reason, suddenly, the idea of letting Sherlock go was untenable.

As the thought crossed John’s mind, Sherlock pulled back abruptly, dropping his hands as if burned. John stumbled slightly into the space Sherlock had just vacated.

“Shit,” John swore, pressing his fingers to his lips and feeling as though the breath had been knocked out of him. “What _was_ that?”

“I—” Sherlock started, shaking his head as if to clear it. He suddenly looked lost, like a young child.  

John stepped forward, but Sherlock shrank away from him, shaking his head. “No, don’t.”

“Sherlock—” John began. 

“Stop,” Sherlock interrupted.

John stopped, frowning. “What’s wrong, what are you—”

Before he could say more, Sherlock turned on his heel, yanking the door open and running from the room.

“Wait!” John started to run after him, but quickly realized that his wallet and cards were all over the floor. “Shit,” he swore under his breath. He gathered up his things as quickly as possible before pushing the door open and running back down the hall toward the pumping music. 

Once he reentered the main room, his eye caught the blond bartender’s gaze. The bartender raised the glass he had been pouring, smiling and nodding at John. John rolled his eyes, continuing to look around. He caught a glimpse of a dark, curly head at the front door. Though he was now wearing a long wool coat, it had to be Sherlock.

John walked quickly toward him, calling out his name, but it was useless over the loud music. 

He fought through the crowd as Sherlock pushed the door open. Before he walked through, though, Sherlock paused, turning back to look into the club as if he could feel John’s eyes on him.  

Their eyes met, and John mouthed “wait,” desperate to keep him from leaving.  

Sherlock shook his head slightly, watching John for a moment longer, then he swept out into the night. John finally pushed through the crowd and ran over to the door. He looked up and down the street frantically, but Sherlock was gone.

 

 

* * *

The day John arrived at the forward operating base near Kandahar, he hung a picture of Mary above his cot. He’d snapped it of her on a summer day, not long after they’d met, when he’d surprised her with a picnic in Regent’s Park. She had been wearing her blue dress, the one that brought out her eyes, and had been laughing about something with her eyes half-closed. 

Most of the time, though, John didn’t think about Mary. He was constantly on the move, constantly using his hands, always trying (and sometimes failing) to save lives. There was hardly ever time to think, only to _be_ , to react, to keep moving and keep saving. He was hyper-aware of everything around him, from the grit of the sand underneath his boots, to the harsh metal of his gun or the scalpel under his fingers, to the feeling of the Afghani sun slicing through the air. He felt more alive than he’d ever felt in his life, as if he’d awoken from a deep slumber. He knew almost instantly that he wasn’t meant to be a civilian working a desk job and taking the rush hour Tube every day in time for supper. This was what he was meant for.

There was only one thing he missed from home. Within the first week it became apparent that he would never get a real night’s sleep again. Even when he wasn’t on the front lines, he was like a spring, always wound up too tight to relax. At most, he managed a half-sleep, like a doze, and he couldn’t dream.

There were some rare days, though, after a particularly long day of casualties, when John was so exhausted that he dropped into a deep sleep. On those nights, he dreamed. 

If someone had asked, he would have told them that he dreamed of the sun glinting in Mary’s blond hair, of the smell of her surrounding him when he woke up next to her. But it wasn't even close to the truth.  

When John dreamed, it was of dark curls twined between his fingers, and translucently pale skin beneath his lips. He dreamed of a lithe body clothed in black pressed up against his own, moving gracefully under oscillating light. He dreamed of strange eyes dark with arousal, and plump lips sliding along his heated skin. He dreamed of a slender waist beneath his fingertips, hard planes and edges, and of the heated sigh of a whisper against his neck. 

He would awake in the middle of the night, his cock hard and a feeling of loss lodged in the center of his chest. Staring up at the ceiling—and very carefully not looking at the picture above his cot—he would quietly wank under the blanket, biting down hard on his fist as he came. 

 

 

* * *

Sherlock went on with life much as he always had. He helped NSY when they asked, and it was usually enough to keep him away from the miasma of uneasiness that always hovered at the edge of his mind. When there were no cases—at least no interesting ones—for him to solve, the only way he could quiet the unease was with the needle. After a couple of days, more often than not, Mycroft would have his flat raided again, and Lestrade would blacklist him from cases.  

When he could no longer bear it, he would escape Mycroft’s clutches, take out every last penny from one of his secret bank accounts and go underground. Mycroft thought he knew all of Sherlock’s boltholes, but what he didn’t know was that Sherlock wasn’t afraid to live among the homeless. They never judged him, or expected him to be something other than what he was—and they were more tight-knit and altruistic than many would have expected. They would never give him up to the authorities.

He would burrow deep, cutting off all his hair and changing his clothes until he was unrecognizable. He would use all the money he had to buy supplies and lose months at a time to numbness.

Sometimes, in those worst days, he couldn’t quite bring himself to care anymore if he lived or died.  

Sherlock wandered the streets at night, searching for something he couldn’t name. Every once in a while, he would come across a paper—stuffed in the back of someone’s bag, or dropped on the street. 

He had generally avoided reading the news for most of his adult life. It was completely irrelevant to his work: this politician or that one in office, an outbreak of yet another new kind of animal flu, a pop star leaking a scandalous video of themselves. 

On his darkest nights, though, he would pick up the paper and find the KIA reports. And every time he saw that a certain name was still not on those lists, a deep sense of relief would lodge in his stomach.

That was usually around the time when he would let Mycroft find him again.

  

 

* * *

John stared up at the brilliant blue sky, gasping for air, as five words rang through his head. 

_Please, God, let me live._

That was rather cliché, wasn’t it? Rather unimaginative last words. Almost every man he’d treated had called for his mother or asked God for help in his dying moments. 

John had never even believed in God anyway. Yet here he was, lying on his back in the sand, soaked in his own blood, pleading for his life with an entity he wasn’t even sure existed.

The absurdity of it almost made him laugh, but the laugh turned into a searing cough that sent violent bursts of pain down his body. He looked down at his shoulder, surveying the damage, and discerned that his lung had most likely collapsed. Laughing was a pretty poor choice of things to do, then, but there weren’t many alternatives. His unit was scattered and no one even knew he’d been hit. Without immediate medical attention, the probability of his survival was slim at best. 

Time seemed to have slowed down until his own heartbeat sounded like a dirge in his ears. It felt like a lifetime had passed since he had hit the ground, but it had probably only been a few minutes. His life was literally bleeding out of him into the sand, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself by thinking of home, but as the pain became more intense, all he could hear was the beating of a heart. From far away, a lifetime ago, he heard the faintest whisper of a voice.

 _Promise me_.

The last thing he saw wasn't the cerulean sky above him, but rather a pair of heterochromatic eyes, and he felt the barest brush of lips against his own just as the world faded to black.

 

 

* * *

John woke with a start, gasping for air, his whole body shivering. It took him a moment to realize that he wasn’t in the desert, fighting for his life. He closed his eyes again, trying to remember that he wasn’t inhaling sandy, sun-burnt air; he was on his bed in his musty, tiny flat, and he was back in England.

Shaking, he lay back down, trying to let the adrenalin run its course. The smell of his own blood was still so vivid that he could have sworn it had just happened.

After a few minutes, his heart had finally stopped beating quite so frantically. Knowing he wouldn't be able to fall back asleep, John got up and stripped off his sweat-soaked clothes, put on a robe, and made himself some tea before sitting down at his desk. Out of habit, he opened the drawer before sitting down to make sure the Sig was still in its place. Sighing, he opened his laptop and tried to write a blog post, as his therapist had recommended. He stared at the blank screen for half an hour, trying to come up with something, but there was nothing to write.

He was hyper-aware of the Sig, just inches away. It was the symbol of his past, the final remnants of the desert where he was constantly in danger and needed. Now he couldn’t even _walk_ , and the tremor in his left hand made him practically useless as a trauma surgeon. He couldn’t go back to the only thing that had given him purpose. Now there was nothing in front of him but a vast expanse of sleepless nights, and endless grey days; the blank computer screen just confirmed it. 

John pushed himself up from the desk, dressing quickly and leaving the flat.  

He walked through the dark streets for hours, until his leg ached and his shoulder was sore. He wandered aimlessly, sometimes taking a turn, but never pausing, as the sky lightened and more people started to wake, hustling on their way to work.

At some point John found himself in Regent’s Park, limping down the path. He was so wrapped up in his own mind that he barely saw Mike Stamford sitting on a bench. Pretending not to notice, he pulled up his collar a bit, hunched his shoulders and continued on his way.  

“John! John Watson!” Mike’s voice called out. John sighed, turning around. 

“Mike,” he said, resigned. 

Mike came up to him, red-faced as ever. “I know, I got fat,” he said, chuckling. “I thought you were abroad, getting shot at. What happened?”

“I got shot,” John said dryly, glancing down at his leg. 

Mike’s grin faltered. “Sorry mate. Haven’t seen you since—wow, must be since the wedding.”

“Yeah,” John said, leaning on his cane heavily.

“Are you and Mary still…”

John shook his head. “Divorced.”

“What happened?”

John sighed, looking over Mike’s shoulder. “She’d been cheating on me and was pregnant with another bloke’s baby when I got back.” 

Mike clapped a hand on John’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, mate.”

“I’m not,” John said, forcing himself to grin. “We were so young when I left, and we didn’t even know each other that well. We both changed so much while I was over there. To be honest I wasn’t all that surprised.”

Mike nodded. “Want to get a coffee? Catch up?" 

John hesitated, but Mike was one of the few friends he had from before the war, and it wasn’t as if he had anywhere to be, after all. “Sure.”  

Ten minutes later, they were sitting on a park bench with coffees, watching people walk by. “So, just staying in town until you get sorted?” Mike asked eventually.

“I’m just at a short-term place until I find somewhere,” John said. “I can’t afford London on an Army pension." 

“Ah, and you can’t bear to be anywhere else. That’s not the John Watson I knew.”

“I’m not the John Watson—” John started to snap, but he stopped himself, clenching his left hand involuntarily. 

Mike looked away awkwardly for a moment. “Well, I don’t know, get a flatshare or something?”

“Oh, c’mon, who would want me for a flatmate?”

A smile bloomed on Mike’s face. “You know, you’re the second person who’s said that to me today.”

John took another sip of his coffee, intrigued. “Who was the first?” 

 

 

* * *

When he walked into the lab and saw the curly head bent over a pipette, John froze. _It couldn’t be._

“Sherlock, this is my friend, John Watson,” Mike said.  

Sherlock immediately looked up, his gaze focusing on John. Neither of them moved or spoke for a long moment. John straightened his back involuntarily, cursing the fact that he was an old invalid, whereas Sherlock was even more beautiful than he remembered. He was seized by a sudden desire to throw the cane away.

Looking stunned, Sherlock stood, still graceful as a cat, and walked over to where John was still standing by the door. 

“John,” Sherlock said, holding out a hand. 

“Nice to meet you,” John said, taking Sherlock’s hand. He immediately felt the same electric connection he’d felt all those years ago, and his breath caught a bit. 

“Well, this is a coincidence,” he said, trying to keep composure.

“The universe is rarely so lazy.” Sherlock’s voice was soft, almost like a caress.

“The universe took its fucking time, then,” John said dryly. 

Sherlock chuckled, and the sound sent a thrill down John’s spine. John felt his lips slide upward into a grin, and Sherlock smiled back. Neither of them dropped their hands or looked away.

“I’ll just…um…” Mike said.  

“Thank you, Mike,” Sherlock said, his eyes never leaving John.

“Pleasure,” Mike said, sounding smug. The door clicked shut behind him. 

Sherlock tore his gaze from John’s, and his razor sharp eyes flicked down John’s form once. “Divorced. Newly invalided home,” he murmured. John simply nodded, not even bothering to ask how he knew. He saw Sherlock’s gaze linger on his cane.

“I know. The intervening years haven’t been as kind to me,” John said bitterly, finally dropping his hand. 

“Not all injuries are visible,” Sherlock said, a shadow passing over his expression. Before John could ask what he meant, though, Sherlock changed the subject. “So, you’re in need of a flatmate?”

John raked his hand through his hair. “Er, I guess...I mean, yes, I am. But isn’t this—” he motioned between them, “—a bit too…”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, questioning.

“Complicated?” John finished weakly.   

Sherlock’s mouth twitched upward into a grin as he started putting on his coat and scarf, heading toward the door. “I have my eye on a place in central London. How about we take a look?” 

John lifted his chin a bit. “Seriously? Just like that? I still don’t even know your last name. We don’t really know each other, and I don’t even know where we’re going.”

Sherlock paused, as if this had never even occurred to him. “Holmes. It’s Sherlock Holmes. The address is 221B Baker Street. Everything else is just details,” he said, holding the door open for John. 

John sighed in exasperation, but just as he hadn’t been able to refuse Sherlock all those years ago, he couldn’t say no now.   

Sherlock grabbed a taxi with ease, and before he knew it John was speeding toward central London. He tried to be nonchalant, but he couldn’t keep from glancing at Sherlock what felt like every few seconds. The very air felt charged between them, and it was as if no time had passed since they had been shagging up against the wall all those years ago.  

Feeling his cheeks color slightly at the thought, John snuck another peek back at Sherlock, who was looking out the window. There was so much John wanted to say, so much he wanted to ask, but he was completely tongue-tied. 

What could he really say, though? _I used to dream about you while I was abroad, you know. I used to think of you when I wanked. For some reason you were the only person I thought of when I was about to die. Did you ever think of me? What are you thinking now?_

Of course, he couldn’t say any of it. So instead, John just turned to look out the window again.  

Finally, they pulled up to a rather posh-looking street, and Sherlock jumped out of the cab, walking briskly up to a polished black door next to a small cafe.

John clambered awkwardly out of the taxi and limped to meet him just as an elderly woman opened the door.

She hugged Sherlock, and he beamed at her. “Mrs. Hudson, Dr. John Watson.” Sherlock presented John with a sort of reverence, saying his full title as if he were someone important. John almost managed not to wince.

Mrs. Hudson looked at John, then at Sherlock, and back at John. Her face slid into a wide grin. “Hello,” she said courteously. 

John nodded, feeling his cheeks flush again. “How do?”

“Well, come in, come in,” she said, and proceeded to chatter away as she showed them up to the flat. 

Sherlock led the way up the stairs and down the hall, pausing to glance back at John before he opened the door to the living room. John limped in and looked around appraisingly. It was cozy, though cluttered with odds and ends and debris, and the kitchen looked like more of a laboratory. There was a red comfort chair to the left of the fireplace, opposite a more modern leather and chrome chair. “Well. This could be very nice,” John said, nodding. “Very nice indeed.”

Sherlock grinned. “Yes, yes indeed, my thoughts precisely.” 

John looked around again. “Soon as we get all this rubbish—”

“—so I went straight ahead and moved in,” Sherlock said simultaneously.

“—cleaned out,” John finished. “Oh.” He bit his lip in embarrassment. Ten minutes in, and he’d already managed to cock things up marvelously. 

Sherlock’s cheeks colored slightly, and he started hastily cleaning up. “Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit.” 

“No, erm—” John stuttered, feeling flustered.  

“What do you think, then, Doctor Watson?” Mrs. Hudson said, coming back into the room. “There’s another bedroom upstairs, if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.” She glanced at Sherlock, then winked at John. 

“I…er...I mean—” John stammered, suddenly wondering why he’d thought it was a good idea to follow a man he’d once shagged, almost a decade ago, back to his flat with the intention of moving in with him. The whole thing was completely absurd.

“Oh, don’t worry, there’s all sorts ’round here. Mrs. Turner next door’s got married ones,” Mrs. Hudson continued, apparently unaware of John’s discomfort.

Sherlock glanced up at John, and his expression immediately turned sour. He rounded on Mrs. Hudson and started shooing her towards the door. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. We’ll let you know if Doctor Watson is going to stay.” 

“Nice to meet you, Doctor Watson,” Mrs. Hudson said. Sherlock closed the door, immediately leaning back against it. 

“Sorry about that,” he said apologetically. 

“S’all right.” John shuffled his feet a bit. “She seems nice.” 

The silence lengthened between them, and Sherlock chewed his bottom lip, watching John with that sharp gaze that made him feel like he was being x-rayed. “John.” He pushed himself off the door.  

“Yes?” John automatically stepped closer, as if Sherlock were some kind of bloody magnet he was constantly drawn toward.  

“I—” Sherlock faltered. “I’m glad…that you’re here.”

John frowned, realizing quickly that Sherlock wasn’t talking about the flat. “I did make a promise,” he said slowly. 

Sherlock’s forehead crinkled. “You remember.” 

“Of course I remember,” John said softly. “I remember everything about that night.” He paused, trying to decide what to say. There was nothing to lose by telling the truth—it was now or never. He decided to start with somewhat neutral ground. “I tried to find you, you know. I ran after you, but you were already gone. Why did you run? I’ve always wondered.” 

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. “I was afraid,” he said simply. 

“Of what?” 

Sherlock waved his hand noncommittally. "There was something about you, something that... I was used to being alone, and I’d never contemplated the idea that someone would make me wish I wasn’t. I was young, volatile…” he trailed off. “I didn’t know how to handle… this.” He gestured between them. “The few men I’d ever been with had discarded me directly after. But you weren’t like that.” 

John clenched his left hand. “So you ran,” he said.

Sherlock nodded, watching him carefully. In the long silence that followed, the thrumming energy between their bodies continued to build until it was almost a physical entity. John realized belatedly that they’d both moved toward each other until they were standing very close. _Close enough for a kiss_. 

Apparently reading his mind, Sherlock’s eyes flicked to John’s mouth, then back up again. Hesitating momentarily, he raised a hand and cupped John’s face in a ghost of the gesture he’d made so long ago. John swallowed, every inch of him already yearning to press Sherlock into the wall and snog him senseless.

The doubt that had been lodged in his stomach was overpowered by the desire—no, the _longing_ , to touch and be touched by Sherlock. 

As Sherlock’s eyes flicked over him, his lips parted, John felt the last bastions of his willpower finally fade away. John dropped his cane, sliding his hands around Sherlock’s waist. It felt completely natural, as if they fit together perfectly. Sherlock's eyelids fluttered, and a slight flush crept over his cheeks.

“You feel it too,” John said wonderingly.

“I should have thought that was completely obvious,” Sherlock huffed.

Sherlock’s intense gaze was filled with so much raw truth that it almost knocked the breath out of John. Feeling as though he had waited a lifetime to do it again, John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. Sherlock made a small noise in the back of his throat before he slid his hands back into John’s hair. His lips were just as luscious as John remembered, and he kissed with the same fervour, though it was laced with a loneliness that John detested. 

They stood there for what felt like ages, teasing with their tongues, nipping lightly, Sherlock’s breaths and caresses sweeter than John could have dreamed. 

He couldn’t have explained it if he’d tried, but kissing Sherlock felt like coming home, more so than arriving back in England or even being with Mary ever had. There was something about Sherlock that made him feel whole, something he hadn’t realized he’d been missing, like a piece of a puzzle. It was as if something deep inside him was saying, _There you are. I’ve been looking for you._

John walked Sherlock back towards the sofa without breaking the kiss, sliding his hands up to peel Sherlock’s jacket off as they went. He pushed Sherlock down lengthwise onto the couch.

“God, you’re even more gorgeous than I remember,” John said breathlessly. He grasped a handful of Sherlock’s hair, pulling his head back to expose his long neck so that he could kiss, suck and bite it at his leisure. Sherlock’s eyes fell closed, and he went a bit boneless under John, becoming passive once it was clear that John was taking charge. It seemed that Sherlock liked being ordered around just as much as John loved dominating his partners.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, sliding his hands up underneath John’s jumper to skim his fingernails up John’s back. John bit particularly hard against his throat, and Sherlock involuntarily arched up into his body. Their still-clothed cocks brushed against each other, sending chills down John’s spine, and he twisted his hips, grinding his pelvis against Sherlock’s. John rutted upward, enjoying the limited friction between their bodies, not enough at all, yet still sending shivers of arousal down his entire body. 

Sherlock had rucked John’s jumper up at this point, and John sat up slightly to pull it completely off, throwing it aside. Sherlock’s hands were on his chest immediately, skimming over his skin, and John realized that Sherlock had never actually seen his naked torso—they’d both been mostly clothed at the club. Trying to deflect attention from the star-shaped scar decorating his shoulder, he leaned down to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt slowly, kissing down the V of exposed skin and reveling in the small moans and breathy keening noises Sherlock emitted as he went further down. 

When his head was parallel with Sherlock’s trousers, he palmed over the tented material, mouthing over Sherlock’s hip as he started unbuttoning them. John pulled the material down just enough to expose Sherlock’s black pants. He met Sherlock’s gaze as he tongued over his erection, still trapped in the fabric. 

Sherlock arched again, breath ragged, but John pinned him down with one arm as he blew hot air onto Sherlock’s pants.  

“John,” Sherlock gasped, his head thrown back and eyes closed. “Oh, John.” 

“Is this...too fast? Do you want to stop?” John panted.

“Don’t you dare.”

John grinned, hooking one finger into Sherlock’s pants and pulling them down enough to let Sherlock’s cock spring free. 

“God, yes,” John said, grabbing it by the base as he kissed the head, tonguing the slit with relish. He slowly slid his lips all the way down and back up, then sucked the head again, teasing it with his tongue as he twisted his hand up and down the shaft. He repeated this motion several times, then reached up to press his fingers against Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock cracked his eyes open to look down at John.  

John nodded, continuing to bob up and down on Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock opened his mouth to suck on John’s fingers. John groaned around Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock shivered, pulling John’s fingers in further and sucking on them hard. 

John ground his hips against the couch cushions, remembering that mouth around his own cock so long ago, those plush lips. He pulled his fingers out and pushed Sherlock’s pants down further, circling his now-wet fingers on the tight muscle of Sherlock’s hole.

“Oh _yes_ ,” Sherlock groaned, his head falling back and his eyes closing again. He let his legs fall further open to allow John better access. John took Sherlock all the way into his mouth again as he pressed one finger in, and Sherlock’s hips ground downward involuntarily. John twisted his finger a bit, massaging the muscle, and pressed it in a bit farther. 

“More,” Sherlock choked out hoarsely. 

John obeyed, pulling out the one finger and pressing two in, slowly, releasing Sherlock’s cock momentarily to look down and watch his fingers disappearing behind Sherlock’s balls. He pulled them out, pressing them in again, deeper this time, and stirred them to loosen the muscle. His mouth was practically watering at the thought of replacing those fingers with his cock.

Sherlock opened his eyes, looking down at John darkly, and once again it seemed that he was reading John’s mind.

“Bedroom,” he said simply.  

“ _Yes_ ,” John said, twisting his wrist once more before pulling his fingers out and sitting up. Sherlock still had his shirt half-on, his eyes lidded and his trousers pulled down to his thighs. His eyes were wide and dark, and he was breathing raggedly, looking up at John hungrily. 

“If we can make it to the bedroom,” John said, resisting the urge to simply pounce on Sherlock again as he stood up. He held out his hand, and Sherlock grabbed it, allowing himself to be pulled up from the couch. Unable to help himself, John immediately started snogging him again. 

“John,” Sherlock mumbled between kisses. “ _Bed_.”

“I know, I know,” John said, and Sherlock pulled him toward the hall, stumbling a bit as he pulled off his shirt and threw it aside. As soon as they made it through the door to the bedroom, John spun Sherlock around and grasped him by the hips as he reclaimed his mouth.  

Sherlock fisted his hands in John’s hair again as he started to walk backward toward the bed while John was busy pushing Sherlock’s trousers down until they pooled at his feet. Sherlock’s legs hit the bed and he fell backward, pulling John on top of him.

“Trousers,” Sherlock panted, working John’s button and fly and pushing John’s jeans down. John paused long enough to stand up and push them completely off, then lay back down directly onto Sherlock. 

Now they were completely nude, skin to skin. John could feel every heartbeat in Sherlock’s chest, and his every nerve and synapse was firing overtime. He tilted his pelvis up slowly, rubbing their cocks against each other, enjoying how Sherlock’s eyes widened. He rutted against him slowly, just letting their cocks slide against each other, and leaned in to kiss Sherlock sweetly, twisting Sherlock’s tongue with his own and nipping at Sherlock’s bottom lip. 

Sherlock lifted his hips up smoothly to meet John’s every movement, making small sounds as he exhaled. The pace got hungrier, and John knew he would come too quickly if he kept this up. Taking every ounce of willpower he had, he pulled pack. “Turn over,” he said, and Sherlock obeyed immediately. 

“Lube?” John asked, trying to rip his gaze away from the incendiary sight of Sherlock’s bare arse.

“Bedside table,” Sherlock said, his voice cracking. “Hurry.” 

John grabbed a condom and a bottle of lube, closing the drawer quickly. He propped Sherlock’s hips up under a pillow, and Sherlock buried his face in another one. Uncapping the bottle, John slathered his index and middle fingers with the lube and pressed them into Sherlock’s hole slowly. Sherlock moaned into the pillow, shifting his hips a bit, as John circled his fingers a bit before pulling them out, then pressed in three. Sherlock made a muffled groan into the pillow. 

“You all right?” John asked, smoothing his hand down Sherlock’s back and continuing to work his fingers in and out.

“Mfghhhh.” Sherlock didn’t raise his head, but the way his hips were moving against John’s fingers made it seem like the answer was in the affirmative. 

John smiled, and focused on twisting his fingers just so until— 

Sherlock yelled into his pillow, and John knew that he’d hit Sherlock’s prostate. Biting his tongue between his teeth to keep from coming at the sight of Sherlock writhing against the bed, John focused on fucking him with his fingers, making sure to brush against that spot over and over again.

Sherlock turned his face to the side, apparently unable to bear it any longer. “John, _now_.”

John didn’t need prompting twice. He pulled his fingers out, grabbing the condom and ripping it open with shaking hands. He rolled it onto himself and slicked it well with lube, before lining himself up with Sherlock’s buttocks. 

“Go slowly. It’s been a while,” Sherlock said over his shoulder.

John nodded, taking his cock in hand, and pressed the head in, and both of them exhaled audibly. He pressed further past the first ring of muscle, teasing in and out slowly for several minutes until his pelvis was up against the curve of Sherlock’s arse.  

“Can I—is it—” John gasped, barely keeping himself from pounding into Sherlock.

“Yes, _move_ ,” Sherlock ordered. 

“Oh, jesus,” John breathed, pulling out slowly and thrusting in hard.

Sherlock let out a long moan into the pillow.

“God, that’s good,” John said, repeating the motion, then rolling his hips to stir his cock inside Sherlock’s body. 

On his next thrust, Sherlock pushed back against him, his hands fisting into the bedclothes. John started thrusting at an even but punishing pace, holding Sherlock’s hips. The room was silent, broken only by the soft slap of skin against skin and Sherlock’s small moans and sighs. 

“Harder,” Sherlock pulled his head up from the pillow to say. John kicked his hips in harder and he lay down on top of Sherlock. He was straddling Sherlock’s thighs now, which kept the head of his cock completely inside. He kept thrusting in, rolling his hips and staying deep, and Sherlock’s keening breaths turned even more jagged and hard. John focused on sharp and quick thrusts, trying to hit Sherlock’s prostate with as much accuracy as possible, peppering kisses over the back of his neck at the same time. Sherlock was completely lost, fucking the pillow under his hips and making whining noises that went straight to John’s cock.

After a particularly hard thrust, Sherlock gasped, writhing into the bed. John grabbed Sherlock round the neck, pulling his head up so that his body was arched upward. Continuing to thrust into him from behind, he turned Sherlock’s head to the side so that he could kiss his open mouth. 

“John,” he panted into John’s mouth, “More, John.” John groaned, and suddenly he wanted to be facing Sherlock, to see his eyes. He pulled out quickly and flipped Sherlock over, then guided his cock back inside the tight heat. Sherlock arched underneath him, his eyes widening. He wrapped his long legs around John, grasping him by the hips hard enough that it almost hurt. 

John leaned down, cupping Sherlock’s face with both hands and kissing him hard as he started slamming into him. Once he found the right angle, he thrust hard until he could feel Sherlock’s body starting to shake. 

“That’s right, you’re so beautiful, come for me,” John gasped, kissing Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock came with a shout, his body clenching around John’s cock.

“Oh god, yes, yes.” John bit into Sherlock’s neck as he continued to thrust into him, riding the oscillating waves of Sherlock’s orgasm, finally falling over the edge.

They collapsed onto the bed together, breathing hard. John’s arms were still clasped around Sherlock, and his softening cock was still inside him. He might have blacked out for a second, but when he opened his eyes, he pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. 

“John,” Sherlock mumbled. “You’re heavier than you look.”

“Sorry,” John said, sitting up. He held onto the condom, pulling out slowly, and Sherlock groaned. 

John quickly disposed of the condom in the bin and flopped back down onto his back next to Sherlock, who appeared not to have moved other than to press his forearm to his eyes. 

“You still alive?” John said, poking Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock slowly turned his face to the side, his eyes bleary.

“No,” he said with a trace of his former snarkiness. John chuckled and leaned in to kiss him again. Sherlock’s lips looked puffy and sensitive, so John kissed him softly, then propped his head up on his hand. They watched each other for a long moment, and the air felt heavy with unspoken words. Somehow, the silence wasn’t awkward, but rather felt heavy with possibility.

John slid his hand over Sherlock’s stomach. “So, what do you reckon about this flatmates thing, then?” 

Sherlock exhaled softly. “I will consider your application in due course, though I think you have a good chance of being in the top five.”   

John dropped his jaw in mock chagrin and boffed Sherlock about the head lightly. “Prat.” 

Sherlock chuckled, grabbing John’s hand and pressing his lips to John’s knuckles. “Well, it’s up to you, unless you want to skip the whole ‘flatmate’ charade and tell Mrs. Hudson we only need one bedroom from the get-go.” 

John stifled a laugh, feeling giddier than he had in probably a decade. “Mmmm, that’s a bit presumptuous of you, don’t you think?” he mused.

“Is it?” Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. “You _are_ in my bed, after all.” 

“Well, you have me there.” 

Sherlock’s expression sobered. “There are a few things you should know about me.” 

“This sounds serious.” 

“I play violin when I’m thinking.”

“I love the violin.”   

Sherlock twisted his mouth. “And sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you?” 

John traced Sherlock’s lips with the pad of his finger. “I don’t know. What I do know is that I haven’t felt this alive since before I was shot.” 

Sherlock was still watching him intensely, but John inhaled deeply and went on. “That day, as I lay arse deep in the bleeding sand, about to die, the last thing I thought about wasn’t my mum, or my childhood, or Mary—it was _you_. It made no sense, since we had only been together for half an hour almost a decade ago.”

He had no idea why he was suddenly being so honest; he’d never even told Ella about any of this, but for some reason, he couldn’t stop.

“You know, right before I ran into Mike, I went on a walk because…” John paused, his mouth feeling dry. Maybe this was too much. Maybe Sherlock didn’t want to know this. They barely knew each other, after all, despite the fact that he felt like he knew Sherlock better than he had ever known anyone in his life. 

Sherlock didn’t say a word, simply looking at John unblinkingly, and John felt like he was being carved out on the inside.

“John Watson,” Sherlock said slowly. “Don’t you dare.”

John’s nostrils flared. “I didn’t have—there wasn’t—” he shook his head.  “You don’t understand. Everything that I was, it’s… gone.” _I’ve lost everything. I’m nothing, I can’t even be a doctor anymore._

Sherlock shook his head, looking desperate, like he couldn’t quite explain himself. “You have no idea how wrong you are.”

“Try me.” John lifted his chin. 

They stared at each other for a long moment, and the silence was only broken by the ringing of Sherlock’s phone from his trousers, but Sherlock made no move toward it. 

“If you no longer existed, I...” Sherlock trailed off, his voice so quiet that John barely heard him.

“You what?” John frowned.

Sherlock tucked his head into John’s neck, though whether it was to avoid John’s gaze or to bring him closer, was unclear. “When I was at my worst, and even the needle couldn’t give me peace, I would check the KIA reports. Knowing that you were still out there in the world somewhere made going on for one more day tolerable.”

“You...” John let the meaning of the words sink in. His vision was flooded with images of Sherlock, strung out, or walking through the dark corners of the city, unable to see the point in making it through one more day. He felt a fierce possessiveness sink into his very core as he tried to bite back the harsh thought of Sherlock being in that much pain. 

“You needn’t worry. I always used clean needles and was tested every two months; you’re not at risk,” Sherlock added quickly. “I’ve been clean for more than two years.”

John swallowed, trying to choke down the emotion that was clawing at his throat. “You think _that’s_ what’s upsetting me right now?”  

Sherlock didn’t respond. John blinked up at the ceiling, and the importance of what they had both just admitted was finally starting to sink in: they had both thought of each other, not just once, but often, during their long years of separation. Somehow, they had both still made it here, alive. 

_You saved me, and I saved you, just by knowing the other one of us was still out there. How often does that happen?_

It was so hard to say any of it. Instead, he only said, “What was it you said about the universe?”

Sherlock relaxed against him, knowing that John understood. “It’s rarely so lazy.”  

John closed his eyes. “To think, after all this time, I almost missed meeting you again.”

Sherlock sighed, and John felt his warm breath against his skin. “I should buy Mike a late Christmas gift. Or ten." 

“I wonder if he knew,” John said, still holding Sherlock tight. “We’ll have to ask him sometime. I did tell him about the strange tall bloke I met in the club, but I never told him what happened. Maybe he guessed.” 

They lay there for several long minutes in silence until Sherlock’s phone rang again.

“Someone’s really trying to get a hold of you,” John said.  

“They’ll keep.” Sherlock nuzzled into his neck.

Then there were footsteps and loud voices on the stairs, and both John and Sherlock sat up abruptly. 

“I bet he’s just ignoring me on purpose,” a male voice said. 

“Are you sure it’s—” Mrs. Hudson’s voice started to say. 

“It’s fine, ma’am. He knows me well enough that this won’t come as a surprise,” the first voice said. 

“Stay here,” Sherlock whispered, and he vaulted out of bed, striding over to his cupboard and pulling out a silk dressing robe.

“Who is it?” John hissed. 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Sherlock said, tying the robe. “I’ll be back shortly.”

There was a knock on the door. “Sherlock?”

“Coming,” Sherlock called out, flattening his mussed hair. John bit his lip to suppress a giggle. Sherlock still looked thoroughly shagged, with his lips pinked and a love bite or two on his neck.

Sherlock opened the door, slipping out quickly and closing it behind him. John stood and walked quietly over to the door, pressing his ear against the wood. 

“Bit of a lie-in, Sherlock?” Lestrade said. There was an edge of amusement to his voice. 

“I don’t see why it matters.” Sherlock’s voice was much more haughty, more guarded than it had been only moments before.

“I have—”

“Where?” Sherlock interrupted.

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”  

There was a pause. “Who’s on forensics?” 

“Anderson.”

Sherlock snorted. “Anderson won’t work with me.”

“He won’t be your assistant.”

“I _need_ an assistant.”

“Will you come?” 

“Yes, but not in the police car. I’ll follow.” 

John heard the sound of receding footsteps, and he tiptoed back over to the bed, getting under the covers just before Sherlock opened the door.  

Sherlock raised an eyebrow down at him, and John flushed, realizing that Sherlock was aware he’d been eavesdropping. 

“So, you still work with NSY then,” John said casually. 

“Indeed. One could say I’ve made a career out of it.” Sherlock walked over to his cupboard, pulling out a fresh suit and hanging it on the door. “I’m going to shower, do you want to go first?” 

“No, you go ahead. What’s this all about then?” 

“You’ve seen the papers. Serial suicides. There’s a fourth now.” 

“How do you know—”

“You’ve seen a lot of violent deaths as a trauma surgeon,” Sherlock interrupted.

John raised his eyebrows at the non sequitur. “Yes. Far too much. Enough for a lifetime.” 

Sherlock walked toward him, his eyes glittering with excitement. “Want to see some more?”

He leaned over John until they were close enough to kiss. “Could be dangerous,” he said, his voice low. 

For a long moment John didn’t know what to say, before he realized what was happening. Sherlock wasn’t only asking him to stay, he was asking him to come along to a crime scene. He was, essentially, trying to make John feel useful again. Coming from anyone else, the gesture would have piqued him, and he would have refused automatically, but from Sherlock, it felt like a liferaft, one Sherlock knew he needed.

So many possibilities—solving crimes together, studying bodies, coming back and tumbling into bed again—ran through his mind. The endless, empty days that had been his reality only hours before were nothing more than a memory. 

John smiled, pulling Sherlock down for a kiss. “Oh god, yes,” he said, and he felt Sherlock’s lips lift up into a smile.  

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The song that was playing when Sherlock and John danced together in the gay club was “Barracuda” by Heart.


End file.
